


body electric

by lastontheboat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has Long Hair, M/M, Veela Draco Malfoy, Wandmaker Harry Potter, draco has commitment issues, draco's magic is suddenly on the fritz, harry makes wands the muggle way, nothing a good lust-powered wand crafting session won't fix, oh no what could be causing it, woodworking is sexy and nothing will change my mind on this subject
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/pseuds/lastontheboat
Summary: “What could you possibly want?” Harry asks."Would you believe I’m here for assistance with my wand?” Malfoy replies, still refusing to meet his eyes, and Harry snorts.“There are other wand makers,” he says tightly. “Unless you’ve slept with all of them as well.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 27
Kudos: 364





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaesMora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesMora/gifts).



> Maes, I've watched you put so much thought and care into the community and the people around you. You deserve nice things in your life, so I've stuffed this small fic with as many of your likes as I could manage. You are a delightful human being and I'm very glad to have the opportunity to get to know you better. Happy birthday!
> 
> Thanks to [V](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaharya) and [Fay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_reader_and_writer) for beta reading!

Harry considers his latest wand and sighs. It _looks_ like a perfectly serviceable wand—made from aspen, with some of his best surface etchings to date, and a core built on strands from the tail of a Hogwarts Thestral, but when he holds it it just feels inert. Lifeless. Like a block of wood with some hair trapped inside of it. It’s the latest in a series of wands he’s made while attempting to broaden his repertoire of techniques and materials, but it doesn’t feel like he’s making much progress. 

Frustrated, he carelessly tosses the wand into his box of other failed experiments and returns to his workbench. He collects the wood shavings surrounding his lathe and vanishes them, perhaps more aggressively than is strictly necessary. It's satisfying, though. He replaces his chisels on their wall mount and sits down on his stool, staring out the window of his workshop as he contemplates what he can do to get out of his slump. He has spent several months focusing on turning wands using Muggle woodworking techniques, with as little magic involved as possible, and unfortunately that means that much of the existing wand lore out in the world that might otherwise help him is useless. Perhaps it’s time to give in and return to the traditional wand making forms that Ollivander taught him during his apprenticeship. It’s just that he finds them so restrictive; there’s no room for creativity. Ollivander chided him whenever he decided to follow his gut, experimenting with new woods or cores instead of sticking to the prescribed ones. As soon as Harry had finished his apprenticeship he’d decided to focus exclusively on his experiments. 

Several knocks on his workshop door interrupt his thoughts. He frowns; he’s not expecting anybody today, and his previous special commissions have been arranged by mail. Harry peers out the window, trying to make out the figure standing outside, but the angle’s not quite right. He gets up and wipes his hands on his apron, trying to brush away the worst of the wood shavings and sawdust, and pulls open the door. 

Of all the people who might turn up at the front step of his wand-making workshop, Draco Malfoy is perhaps the least likely. He has his fist raised, about to knock again, but he slowly lowers it as Harry crosses his arms and stands there without saying anything. They look at each other, and Malfoy is the first to break and glance away uncomfortably. Harry feels like he’s won the opening round; it’s sharp and sweet, and it feels vindictive but he doesn’t care. 

“What could you possibly want?” Harry asks. 

"Would you believe I’m here for assistance with my wand?” Malfoy replies, still refusing to meet his eyes, and Harry snorts. 

“There are other wand makers,” he says tightly. “Unless you’ve slept with all of them as well.” 

The tips of Malfoy’s ears turn pink, but he brings his gaze up to meet Harry’s once more. “It turns out the other wand makers aren’t interested in my custom,” he says. 

“Is it because you’re a prat?” Harry asks. He’s enjoying turning the screws a little bit, out of spite. 

“It’s probably because I was a Death Eater,” Malfoy says calmly, and that takes a bit of the wind out of Harry’s sails. 

“And so you come to me, because you already know I make bad decisions?” 

“You did nothing wrong,” Malfoy says. “I shouldn’t have gone home with you. That’s my mistake.” 

“Oh, thanks a lot for that,” Harry says, and it comes out so bitter. “You pick me up at a club, shag me, then fuck off without saying a word for five months, and now you show up to tell me it wasn’t my fault. Fuck you, too.” He puts his hand on the door, prepared to slam it in Malfoy’s face. 

“Harry, please,” Malfoy says, and there’s something in his face, a rawness, that makes Harry hesitate for a moment. He hates himself for it. “I am truly sorry for the way I treated you. I shouldn’t have done that. But my magic is… broken, and I don’t know who else can help me.” 

Maybe it’s just the pleasure of watching Malfoy beg for Harry’s help, acknowledging the power that Harry holds over him and how he fucked up, but Harry’s feeling slightly better about this encounter. Maybe he’ll hear the git out. “Broken how?” Harry asks cautiously. 

“My casting is inconsistent,” Malfoy says. “Sometimes it’s fine. Sometimes spells will just stop working while I’m focusing on them, or they won’t even cast at all.” 

“Huh,” Harry says. Against his better judgement, his mind is already working on possible tests they could run. He’s always found it difficult to resist a good mystery. The little Hermione voice in his head points out that this is doubly true when it comes to Draco Malfoy, but he ignores her. 

“I promise to leave you alone,” Malfoy says nervously. “I’ll do whatever you ask. I’m just… I’m scared of what this means. Please. There’s nobody else I can turn to.” 

“You’re lucky it’s an interesting problem,” Harry grumbles, but he’s opening the door wider as he says it and ushering Malfoy inside. He doesn’t offer to take Malfoy’s coat, and it’s a small and petty act that makes him feel slightly better. “Come on into the workshop and let me see your wand.” 

Malfoy hands it over, and Harry allows himself a momentary fantasy of snapping it in half and throwing the pretty bastard out. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face as he balances the wand on his palm. It still feels structurally sound, which removes one possible cause of magical malfunctions from the list. Harry tries casting a _lumos_ with it, but he doesn’t notice any resonances or interruptions as he maintains the charm; the wand produces a faint but steady light from its tip. That’s an unsurprising result, given its supposed allegiance, but Harry always makes sure to follow the basic diagnostic methods he learned under Ollivander’s guidance. He hands the wand back to Malfoy, who seems surprised that he’s done with it so quickly. 

“Is that all?” he asks, sounding suspicious. “Aren’t there more tests to run?” 

Harry is tempted to mess with him, but he suppresses the urge. He can be the bigger person in this interaction; he is a consummate professional. “It feels like any other wand to me,” he says. “That suggests the problem lies in your connection with it. Go ahead and cast a _wingardium leviosa_ on this stool here, and let’s see if we can observe the problems you described.” 

“Very well,” Malfoy says. He licks his lips, then casts the spell with such a pretentious flourish that Harry rolls his eyes. The stool gracefully lifts off the ground and hovers at the level of Harry’s chest. “Is that good?” Malfoy asks. 

Harry studies the stool, searching for any sign of inconsistency or weakness as it sits in mid-air in front of them. “Feel anything unusual?” he finally asks. 

“No,” Malfoy says tersely, still focusing on the stool. They both watch it in silence for what must be at least a minute, and there’s no change in its state. “I’m not making this up,” he finally says, sounding disgruntled. 

“It’s natural to have performance anxiety,” Harry says, and he smirks a bit at his own joke. 

“Fuck off,” Malfoy growls, and something at the base of Harry’s spine thrills to hear him say it. It reminds him of that night they spent together, the way Malfoy had made his way over to Harry at the club. He brushes the memory aside as the stool suddenly drops almost a foot before its fall is arrested once more, and he quickly looks at Malfoy. 

“That was it,” Malfoy says, and he looks nervous. “That’s what I’m talking about. Sometimes it’s more extreme than that.” 

“Huh,” Harry says. His curiosity is definitely piqued now; he runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly, fiddles with his bun as he reevaluates what could be causing Malfoy’s problem. “You can let the spell go,” he tells Malfoy, and walks over to his collection of wands and picks a few out. A beech wand with a hair from a centaur’s forelock, oak surrounding a bit of kneazle whisker; those are well-rounded wand cores that should be broadly compatible with many different magical cores. He rummages through the box, looking for some others with similar characteristics, then reconsiders and decides to bring the whole thing over to the workshop bench instead. 

“Ok,” Harry says. “You’re going to try to make this stool hover with each of these wands. If it works at all, I want you to maintain it and see if the same problem occurs.” 

“And if it does?” Malfoy asks nervously. 

“Then we’ll have learned something else,” Harry replies, and he leans back against the workbench to watch what he expects will be a long and boring process. 

The afternoon is exactly as long and boring as Harry expects, but at least he gets to watch Malfoy become flustered and annoyed when a wand refuses to cooperate with him. If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t mind being able to look at Malfoy all afternoon either. He’s objectively handsome; his high and tight haircut appears to have been retouched recently so the shaved sides are nice and short, while the rest of his hair hangs along the top of his scalp. The earlier hurt and anger Harry was feeling has gradually given way, replaced by something else that Harry chooses not to examine too closely. It’s not hope—he refuses to let himself be taken in again, since Malfoy clearly doen’t want what Harry wants. But it’s surprisingly enjoyable to be around the man. Harry wonders what they would be like together if there wasn’t this mystery hanging between them. 

The method that Ollivander taught Harry for wands choosing their wizard really only applies to children; their magic is so unformed and wild that it tends to cause exciting displays during the selection process. Adults, unfortunately, require a process that is much less interesting—Harry makes them cast a familiar, comfortable spell, and if nothing happens they move on to the next wand candidate. Malfoy has the additional issue that sometimes the first cast doesn’t work, so he has to try the spell multiple times. 

Harry notices a pattern though. Whenever he gets bored, he finds himself taunting Malfoy, trying to get a rise out of him. It seems like the slips in his magic are related somehow to Malfoy giving Harry his attention. Harry can’t help it; he finds himself craving that little spark when he can get under Malfoy’s skin, even though he feels a bit bad that Malfoy can’t really go anywhere else. He keeps telling himself that he’ll be professional, but then Malfoy gets in his own dig at Harry in return, and that competitive spirit urges him on. 

The evidence is inconclusive by the time they’ve made their way through most of the wand box, but Malfoy has yet to find a wand that allows him to maintain the hovering charm for more than a couple minutes. Harry tells himself that if the problem _is_ triggered by Harry’s little barbs then he’s actually helping them avoid a false negative. Really, he’s doing Malfoy a favour. 

Malfoy tosses aside another wand in disgust, this one containing a house elf hair core, and removes another from the nearly empty box, when he suddenly goes still. 

“Oh,” he says softly, and looks at Harry quickly. 

“What?” Harry asks. All thoughts of taunts are gone; he’s tense, ready to intervene if something dangerous occurs. 

“For a moment…” Draco says, looking back at the wand. “It felt different. But it just feels like the rest now.” 

“Interesting,” Harry says, walking over and taking the wand from Draco’s unresisting grip. It’s a birch wand, with a core made from the hair of a Veela, and Harry gets a worrying thought in his head. He taps the wand against his other palm a couple times as he ponders, but decides not to voice his suspicions quite yet. 

He hands the wand back to Malfoy. “Go ahead and cast,” he says, as if he doesn’t much care what happens next. 

Malfoy licks his lips. “Is something going to happen?” he asks nervously. 

“Who knows?” Harry says, adding a shrug for effect, and stands back to watch. 

Malfoy looks a bit annoyed now, but the way it’s mixed with his intense concentration as he casts is doing things for Harry. He makes himself look at the stool instead while Malfoy casts the charm. It hovers on the first try, and Harry gives it a good five seconds before he says: “So I’ve been seeing someone.” 

The stool immediately clatters to the ground, and a thrill runs through Harry. 

“What are you distracting me for?” Malfoy asks, sounding annoyed. Harry loves that tone of voice, and he loves how easy it is to draw it out of Malfoy. 

“I’m just helping the experiment,” Harry says innocently, appreciating the sight of Malfoy’s lips drawing together into a thin line. They’re nicer lips when they’re fuller and pressed against Harry’s of course, but he’ll take whatever pleasure he can get from this afternoon. 

“Next wand?” Malfoy asks. 

“Actually, I want to try something different,” Harry says. He walks over to his bench and pulls out what he calls his test wand—instead of a permanent core, it’s got a removable panel he can use to insert different materials into it if he wants to quickly check the efficacy of a particular one with a spell caster. “I’ll need one of your hairs.” 

Malfoy’s hand instinctively goes to the top of his head, running his fingers through the thicker hair there as if reassuring himself. “Why?” he asks suspiciously. 

“Just an idea,” Harry says. He knows he’s being cagey. “Indulge me?” 

Still gazing at him warily, Malfoy reaches up and plucks one of his long, pale hairs, grimacing as it comes free. He reaches out and passes it to Harry, who inserts it into the test wand and replaces the panel before holding out the device to Malfoy. 

“Let me know how this feels,” Harry says. 

As Malfoy accepts the wand, his eyes widen. “It did it again,” he breathes. “It was almost tingly for a moment.” He peers at the wand, as if trying to see what’s different about this one. “What did you do to it?” 

Harry pushes himself off of where he was leaning against the workbench. This result confirms his suspicions; he doesn’t know of any other reason that a wand containing a hair of the spell caster would ever be viable. “Do a quick cast, please?” he asks. “Just to be thorough.” 

Malfoy casts the levitation charm once again and the stool begins to hover without any incident; Harry barely even waits before baiting Malfoy again. “You weren’t even that good, that night at the club,” he says. “It was really a forgettable experience.” 

He’s not even looking at the stool as it hits the floor once more. He’s watching the curve of Malfoy’s lip, the flush of his cheeks, and he would swear he can feel a force pulling him towards the other man. Harry has to grab on to the edge of the workbench to keep himself from approaching Malfoy, which feels like it would be a bad idea right at this moment. 

“Forgettable?” Malfoy says, huskily. “Then why do you care so much that I left?” 

“Ok,” Harry announces, louder than necessary. “I have some good news and some bad news for you.” He tries to concentrate on the experiment he just did and what it means, rather than what Malfoy just said. Down that path lies danger. He turns his entire body away, and it takes real effort. “But I’m going to tell you it while I look out this window, because I need to not look at you for a bit.” 

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy drawls, and Harry _feels_ the words run the length of his body, feels himself hardening in response. He gulps a breath; his mouth is dry all of a sudden. 

“First of all, you can go fuck yourself,” he gasps. “Second, you’re a Veela, and you need to stop whatever it is you’re doing to me right now.” 

It’s like a bubble bursts, and Harry suddenly finds he can breathe normally again. 

“I’m _what_?” Malfoy demands. 

Taking a moment to compose himself, Harry turns back around to face Malfoy. “Even if you’re not a Veela, you're still doing whatever it is that Veelas do, so it amounts to the same thing,” he says, more calmly than he feels. It’s like being in the eye of the storm, knowing that whatever he was just experiencing could reappear at any moment. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy snaps. 

Harry points at the wand. “There’s nothing inside that except one of your hairs,” he says. “They used to make wands with Veela hair cores; I don’t really know why they stopped, but there are still lots of older ones in use. There’s no reason that wand should work for you unless that’s a Veela’s hair that I put in it.” 

“But…” Malfoy begins, before trailing off. He looks uncertain for once, like his whole world has shifted. “What do I do? And why is this only happening to me now?” 

Harry sighs. This is getting into new territory for him. “I need to do some research. Consult with some people. You should come back later this week. Maybe try not to make anyone fall in love with you.” 

Just like that, the old Malfoy is back. He gives Harry a smirk. “No promises,” he says, and Harry’s knuckles turn white with how tightly he grips the desk behind him. 

“Yeah, don’t do that,” he grits out. “It’s really fucking annoying.” He tries really hard not to think about those eyes raking his body, Malfoy’s wiry forearms pinning his body to the mattress. 

Malfoy frowns. “Do what?” he asks, but he looks closer at Harry and must notice the tension that he’s carrying. “Oh,” he says, meeting Harry’s gaze once more. “I… don’t really know what I’m doing.” 

Harry swallows. “Well,” he says, trying to focus on the work ahead of him. “Come back in a couple days and don’t make those stupid bedroom eyes at anybody else.” 

Malfoy breaks eye contact, and the moment passes like a cloud across the sun. “Oh,” he says again. “Right.” He straightens his shirt unnecessarily, still looking at the wall next to Harry's head. “So, two days then?” 

“Let’s make it three,” Harry says, thinking about all the books on wand lore and magical creatures that he needs to dig through. 

Malfoy chuckles. “What a… loose definition of ‘a couple’ you have,” he says, and when his eyes meet Harry’s again Harry feels himself swallow. It’s a look that promises many things. “Three days it is.” He strides to the doorway, pulls open the door, then stands on the threshold. Without looking back at Harry, and in what Harry is coming to think of as his normal voice, he says, “Thank you. For… you know.” He apparates away before Harry can think of a response. 


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, Harry is on edge as he waits for Malfoy to arrive. He has spent the intervening time looking through the Hogwarts library after receiving special permission from Headmistress McGonagall, but he hasn’t found much that’s useful. The collection is light on wand lore, and Flourish and Blotts strictly sells what Ollivander used to derisively call “light reading” on the subject. 

Harry had found himself describing the problem to Hermione the previous night, and she had excitedly flooded him just after midnight. She'd announced that she'd discovered a short chapter in a compendium on magical creatures that described instances of magical core interference for Veelas who used wands. To both Harry and Hermione’s chagrin, that was when Ron had interrupted them to point out that they should ask Fleur if she knew anything. 

Fleur had been happy to talk about her history with wands; apparently her parents had commissioned a custom wand for her in order to avoid her wand core interfering with her magical core. It was this custom wand that was making Harry anxious; after Fleur described how the wand itself had to be crafted under the influence of the Veela’s pull, Hermione had noticed Harry’s expression and made him tell her everything. 

A knock at the workshop door pulls Harry out of his thoughts. He leaves his stool and goes to the door, takes a breath before opening it; Malfoy is standing there, proud as ever, but Harry thinks he can detect a tension about his lean frame. 

“Good morning,” Malfoy says formally. “As agreed, I have returned three days from our original appointment.” 

“Yes,” Harry says. Everything feels weird between them now that Harry knows what he has to do. “Well. Come in, then.” He steps back and allows Malfoy to enter the workshop. 

“Not that I doubt your conclusions, exactly,” Malfoy begins as he steps over the threshold, and Harry gives a little snort because that’s a great fucking way to start a sentence. “But I decided to do a little research into my family’s history to see how this… situation could be possible.” 

“Is that so?” Harry asks. He shuts the workshop door and leans against it, crossing his arms against his chest. “Did you learn anything useful about your ‘situation,’ then?” He exaggerates the word, knowing he’s being petty about it. Malfoy’s demeanour is setting him on edge. 

“I talked to the portraits in the Manor,” Malfoy says casually, not rising to the bait. He’s roaming around Harry’s workshop as they talk, looking at everything. He reaches out to minutely adjust the angle of a framed picture of Hogwarts that’s hanging on the wall, and Harry itches to tell him to keep his hands to himself. “They trust me, you know. I started asking questions about family scandals, and they were falling all over themselves to tell me whatever they knew or suspected.” 

Harry is not actually surprised that the Manor portraits are enormous gossips. That just seems fitting, for some reason. He refrains from pointing this out, though, since Malfoy sounds like he’s building to some kind of point. 

“It seems that back in the 1600s there was a Malfoy who was a bit of a wild sort,” Malfoy says, now trailing his fingers along Harry’s lathe. “He married a woman who was half-Veela, and he was nearly disowned before his new wife demonstrated her value to their social standing through intimate dinner parties.” He glanced at Harry, his mouth turning up at the corners. “Probably nothing sordid, mind you. It just turns out it’s easier to be a socialite if everyone who comes in contact with you is naturally disposed to want to… please you.” 

Harry clears his throat. His shirt collar suddenly feels a bit tight. “Yes, I believe that,” he says drily. “And did these portraits reveal anything else of interest?” 

“Only that I had a great-great uncle who all of a sudden went into seclusion,” Malfoy says, casually, like it’s only mildly interesting. The tension is still there, though, as prominent as ever. “He had a promising career in the Ministry, many high-level connections, everything on the up and up. And then he went and decided to become a recluse and stopped accepting visitors.” His roaming hands still, and he meets Harry’s eyes. It’s electrifying. “The obvious conclusion is that he was afflicted the same way that I am, without prior warning,” he says, and Harry finds himself nodding along. “I won’t have it!” Malfoy is all steel now, the commanding patriarch. His gaze holds Harry’s completely. “I am all that is left of my family, and I will not allow myself to be shunted aside like an embarrassment.” 

Harry licks his dry lips. Malfoy looking at him like that is doing things to him, and he isn’t looking forward to the next couple of hours. Well, rationally, part of him is dreading it, but there’s a significant portion of his brain which is rubbing its hands together in anticipation. 

“Well then,” Harry says, and attempts to head off whatever is passing between them by walking over to his blocks of rough wood and considering them. “You should be happy to learn that all you need is a new wand that won’t get tangled up in your new Veela powers.” 

“You’re sure?” Malfoy asks from behind him. He sounds dubious. 

“As sure as I can be,” Harry allows. “Ron’s sister-in-law is part Veela and described the wand-making process to me.” He runs his fingers along the unformed blocks of wood sitting on the shelf in front of him. He always enjoys this part, when he has to choose an appropriate base wood for the wand while considering the nature of the wizard. 

“Well, that does sound promising,” Malfoy says. “What makes this new wand different?” 

“There are two things,” Harry says, and he attempts to inject confidence he doesn’t quite feel into his voice. “We’ll use one of your hairs to provide the link with your magical core. Also, the wand must be crafted under your… influence. This will allow your magic to be used in harmony with your, er, other magic.” 

There’s a pause. Harry resists the urge to turn and look at Malfoy, see what his reaction is. He tries to focus on the woods in front of him—is Malfoy a birch? No, that’s far too common for his dramatic personality. 

“Did I hear you right?” Malfoy asks. He sounds amused. “You’re going to make me a wand while I do everything in my power to seduce you?” 

Harry leans his forehead against the shelf supports. He will get through this. Somehow. “Crass, but essentially yes.” 

Malfoy chuckles. “Well, how do we start?” he asks, and it comes out like a purr that Harry feels all the way to the base of his spine. 

“Wood!” Harry exclaims wildly. “We start with wood!” He lets his instincts guide him as he sorts through the unformed blocks, and his hand stills over a piece of dogwood. It’s one of the hardest varieties of wood, and it resists pressure well. The trees burst into surprising colour in the winter months, yet remain bare for the rest of the year. It feels right. 

He hears Malfoy moving closer behind him, and Harry grabs the dogwood block and spins around, holding it in front of him like a protective charm. Malfoy’s close enough that he’s practically shoving the block into the other man’s chest. “See?” Harry asks, and it comes out slightly breathy. “I start with this block, then I use the lathe to turn it and carve a wand from it.” He’s pretty sure he’s babbling, but he desperately needs to keep his mind off of the predatory look in Malfoy’s eye. 

“Don’t let me get in your way,” Malfoy says, and he takes a step aside to allow Harry to pass, maintaining eye contact the entire time that is honestly far too intense. 

Harry breathes out slowly and brushes past Malfoy to reach the table that holds his lathe. He attaches the dogwood block to it and sets it spinning. “I’m going to start with a large chisel to make a cylinder and find the rough shape of the wand,” he says, hoping that by narrating his steps he’ll be able to ignore the fact that Malfoy is standing only a few steps behind him. He swears he can feel Malfoy’s eyes on his back as he reaches up to grab the chisel off of its wall mount; he is hyper-aware of every movement right now. 

“Mmmhmm,” Malfoy says, and Harry shivers. This is insane. He has no idea how he’s going to complete an entire wand under these conditions. 

He forces himself to concentrate, blocking out any thoughts of Malfoy by imagining that it’s Ollivander looking over his shoulder instead, passing judgement on his efforts. It takes him a few minutes to get into the rhythm of it, and he works away at the hard corners of the block with the chisel, watching them slowly get replaced by the round, smoother shape that he’s looking for. It’s going pretty well, he thinks, but every time Malfoy shifts, or coughs, or reaches out to touch one of the wood shavings surrounding the lathe, Harry has to re-focus on his task all over again. 

“So the strokes can be quite rough right now,” Harry says. He’s aware that his distraction is slowly growing the longer the process takes. He’s desperate to break the silence between them; despite the sound of the lathe and the scrapes of his chisel against the block, it feels like there’s something dangerous in allowing it to continue indefinitely. “The lathe turns the wood so quickly that I can just slide the chisel along the length of the wood without a lot of care and it still comes out rounded afterwards.” He scrapes a series of lines along the block to demonstrate, peeling long strips of excess wood away from it. 

It’s actually helping a bit, he thinks. A few more minutes pass as he allows himself to be lulled by the rhythmic, repetitive nature of the task. It’s soothing, allowing him to concentrate on the work of revealing the wand’s shape. It’s like slowly undressing someone, peeling back layer after layer until—Harry curses his traitorous mind and refocuses on what his hands are doing. It’s just a chisel and a wood block, there’s nothing weird about it. It’s just the repetition of long, careful strokes against the hard, firm wood and— _shit_. 

“You should say something,” Harry says frantically. “I need a distraction.” 

“What would you like me to say?” Malfoy asks. It’s a reasonable question, and Harry is irrationally irritated by it. He can’t split his focus between making the wand and directing the conversation as well as avoid thinking about how Malfoy is just _standing there_ , when he could be reaching out instead— 

“I don’t care,” Harry says quickly. “Just ask me questions or something.” He bites his lip as he pushes the chisel along the length of the wood again. _Why_ did wands have to have such phallic shapes? 

“You said you’re seeing somebody,” Malfoy says, and it comes out so casually. Harry desperately wishes he could see the expression on the other man’s face, but he can’t risk it. “Who is it?” 

Under other circumstances, if he weren’t trying to craft a wand under the waxing sex magic of a one night stand that he’s having trouble getting over, Harry might be tempted to lie. At this moment, however, he’s powerless. “I made that up,” he says. Malfoy hisses quietly, and it’s like someone has cast a warming charm on the room. Harry’s palms feel clammy on the chisel. “It was just something to get under your skin. To test my theory.” 

“What theory was that?” Malfoy asks. The way he says it makes Harry think of tinder, dry leaves that could catch at any moment. 

“That jealousy could trigger your issues with your wand.” He bears down with the chisel, causing a curve to appear starting at the midpoint of the wand, helping it narrow towards the end. Unfortunately at that moment Malfoy lays a hand on Harry’s back, and all thoughts of artistry and aesthetics fly out the window. Harry's eyes widen; his nostrils flare as he hyperventilates through them, but otherwise he is completely still. 

“Jealousy,” Malfoy muses, and his fucking hand is just sitting possessively at the base of Harry’s neck and it’s all Harry can do to refrain from rubbing himself against it like a kneazle in heat. “Do you think your theory was correct?” 

“You tell me,” Harry gasps, then he hits the switch for the lathe and flings himself off of the stool, away from Malfoy’s burning touch, and over to his chisels once more. He replaces the large one on its mount before turning to face Malfoy. “I’m going to need another hair,” he says. He tries to look anywhere else in the room, but his gaze keeps being dragged back to Malfoy’s. It’s far, far too much for him to handle. 

“What happened to the last one?” Malfoy asks, his lips curling up into a smile. “Were you… careless with it?” 

Harry can’t quite get enough air. “Honestly, I have no fucking idea right now,” he says. He can’t even conceive of where the test wand ended up; he doesn’t care about it at all. He needs to get his hands on Draco. He crosses the space between them in two steps, and Draco’s eyes widen in surprise as Harry brings his palm up to cup his face. 

“What do you want, Harry?” Draco breathes. His pupils are dilated, and Harry hates that he still can’t look away. 

“Your hair,” Harry says. He feels like he’s trying to convince himself, as he finds himself running his fingers up along the shaved part of Draco’s head. Draco purrs as Harry’s hypersensitive palm makes contact with the short, bristly hairs, and Harry’s knees just about give way at the sensation. He forces his hand to continue up into the longer hair on top of Draco’s head. 

“You could have anything you wanted,” Draco says, voice full of promise, and Harry summons all his will and yanks a couple strands free at once. 

There’s no other word for it—Draco squawks at the sudden pain. Harry quickly takes a step back as he feels the attraction between them dim. “Just the hair, thanks,” he says, and he turns back to his workbench, smirking a bit to himself. He hears Draco chuckle quietly, but it feels like he temporarily has the upper hand in whatever is going on between them. 

Looking at the proto-wand on the lathe, he abruptly realizes that he has forgotten to sand it down. He silently berates himself for a moment; Malfoy had made him so flustered that he had been about to rush through the next steps, and that was a very risky path. He won't allow it to happen again. 

“Ok, here’s what’s going to happen,” Harry says, desperate to regain control over the situation. “You’re going to ignore what I’m doing and read one of my books on wandlore. You were a swot in school, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” 

“Why can’t I watch?” Malfoy asks, sounding slightly annoyed. Maybe he’s still bristling about the hair thing. 

“Because I really can’t have you staring at me right now,” Harry snaps. “Not if this wand is actually going to turn out decent.” He tries to slow his breathing, willing himself to calm down. There’s still lots to do, and he’s got to remain clear-headed. 

“Am I interfering with the work?” Malfoy asks mockingly, and his voice caresses something deep inside of Harry. 

“Yes!” Harry says through gritted teeth. “Now go read a book!” Setting Malfoy’s hair aside for later, he grabs his roughest sandpaper and sets the lathe turning once more. The next part requires him to hold the sandpaper against the wand as it turns, pressing down the roughest chisel marks and ensuring the surface of the wand is smooth to the touch. 

It’s slightly better this time as Malfoy settles himself in a chair and begins to read. Harry is able to focus on his hands again, and their position relative to the wand as it spins at high speeds. Small particles of wood fly around him, and he has to take short breaks as the friction of the sandpaper against the wood makes it too warm to handle. He spends a good fifteen minutes on the task, progressively switching to higher grain papers to remove the roughness of the wood. He tries not to worry about Malfoy while he’s doing it, but they’re both being quiet again, and it’s making Harry nervous. 

After the wand is sanded appropriately, Harry sneaks a glance over his shoulder. He briefly catches Malfoy’s gaze before the other man looks down at the book in his lap again, and Harry exhales. Even though he knows he told Malfoy not to look at him, he can’t deny the satisfaction from knowing that Malfoy apparently can’t keep his eyes off of him. 

“This next step is a bit more delicate,” he says. The quiet is just too much. He figures he may as well keep up the narration; inviting more questions from Draco seems like it’s just asking for trouble at this point. “I need to make a small incision for the wand core without compromising the integrity of the rest of the wand.” 

“And how will you do that?” Draco asks. Harry can hear him moving closer, but it’s easier to think now than it used to be, as if Draco’s actually more interested in the process. Maybe reading the book really did help somehow. 

“I split the wand down the middle,” Harry says, extracting the wand from the lathe and setting it on the platform attached to his small jigsaw. “Then I rejoin the two halves afterward.” 

“Do you always avoid magic when creating these wands?” Draco asks. He sounds puzzled. 

“In general, yes,” Harry says, lining the saw blade up with the middle of the wand. “For your wand in particular it’s very important. I can’t even begin to guess how my magic might interact with your powers, the wand core, and your own magic.” 

“It could be a fun experiment,” Draco says, and it’s like a switch has been flipped. Harry can feel Draco’s gaze on him again, and he suddenly has to concentrate very hard on turning on the saw and making a precise cut along the length of the wand. It takes longer than is strictly necessary; he’s going slower than usual because he keeps getting distracted imagining Draco moving through him like the saw blade, a quick, neat release, and he’s left breathing hard at the image. He finally reaches the end of the wood and turns the machine off again, and the quiet abruptly feels very loud. 

“Now we just—” Harry begins, before his mouth is so dry that he is forced to swallow. He can _feel_ Draco’s presence behind him. He would swear there was a hand hovering just above his head. “Now we just have to join the two parts together around the core,” he says, fighting to get the words out. 

“When two become one,” Draco says, and it’s low and sultry. 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry mutters to himself, but he looks over his shoulder even though he should know better. Draco is standing just behind him, looking through the book on wandlore that he was reading earlier, and Harry suddenly remembers that there is actually a chapter called that and it covers exactly what he’s about to do. “Do you have to do that?” he snaps. “Isn’t it enough that you’re, you know, projecting your sexy aura all over the place?” 

He knows it’s a mistake as he says it. Draco looks up from the book, and Harry can only describe the look as a _smoulder_. It’s awful and it’s wonderful, and Harry is completely pinned by Draco’s gaze. 

“Am I distracting you?” Draco asks, far too casually. “I think the wand is coming along nicely.” 

Harry grinds his teeth and breaks eye contact, turning back to the wand. Somehow when Draco is being a prat it actually makes the desire to go to him stronger, and he can’t really spare any concentration to unpack that right now. Placing one of the hairs he took from Draco in the centre of the two wand segments, he grabs a bottle of wood glue and spreads it carefully along both lengths of wood. 

“Now, with the application of pressure,” Harry says as he presses the separated wand together, “both halves of the wand should join again without any noticeable weakening.” He gently picks up the whole wand and transfers it to a clamp attached to the side of the work bench, screwing it closed until the wand is rigid and immobile. 

“And now what?” Draco asks from just over his shoulder, and Harry shudders. Maybe Draco is just leaning forward to get a better look at the wand, he thinks. 

“Now we wait for it to dry,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice steady. His hands are clenched on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening with the effort to keep them there. 

“How long will that take?” Draco whispers, practically in his ear. Harry lets out an involuntary gasp. 

“Far, far too long,” he says, and then Draco’s hand is in his hair, sliding along his scalp torturously slowly. Harry can barely think; his entire existence has dwindled to the sensation of Draco’s long, slender fingers burrowing through his hair, dragging along his scalp. Harry feels Draco’s other hand against his bun, and then that same hand is undoing it and allowing Harry’s hair to cascade down his hyper-sensitive neck. 

“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Harry,” Draco says. “I want you to know that.” He presses his face against the back of Harry’s head, and Harry leans into it, revelling in the closeness. “I know this is difficult for you.” 

“Yes,” Harry hisses. His cock is hardening at a rate that is almost alarming, and he has no idea what to do next. “Don’t stop,” he whispers. The hand in Harry’s hair slowly tightens into a fist, and Harry’s brain stutters as Draco gently but firmly tugs on his hair. “Christ,” he pants once he’s able to form coherent words again. 

“I don’t actually know if I can control this,” Draco says against his neck, and Harry tries to concentrate on the words rather than the sensation of Draco’s lips on his skin. “I’ll go. We can find some other way.” 

Harry’s entire body reacts violently to this notion. “No!” he exclaims, and he reaches back and grips Draco’s arms, keeping him in place. 

“You’re going to hate me afterwards,” Draco says. “You will never want to see me again.” 

“Just don’t leave this time,” Harry pleads. “Stay. Don’t make me hate you.” 

“You can’t help yourself,” Draco whispers as he nuzzles Harry’s earlobe. “You’ve always hated me.” 

“I don’t. I won’t,” Harry says, almost incoherent with pleasure. “Please.” He’s not even sure what he’s asking for anymore, but the thought of Draco leaving him behind again is too much to bear. 

He doen’t know how long they remain pressed up together like that. They certainly don’t speak for some time, and when Harry doesn’t push him away Draco begins rubbing himself against Harry, slowly, tortuously, and Harry lets out a guttural moan. He deliriously wonders if they could stay like this forever. 

There’s a palpable, gaping absence when Draco finally moves his face away from Harry’s overstimulated neck, and Harry can’t keep a whimper from escaping when Draco’s hand follows. 

“You should probably check on the wand,” Draco says, and he sounds subdued. Harry checks over his shoulder again and sees Draco has moved back against the wall, arms crossed. Whether it’s the difference of the extra few steps, or the lack of physical contact, or something else entirely, Harry finds it easier to think now. 

He gives a shaky little nod to Draco and turns back to the wand, checking carefully along its length. It appears to have settled together perfectly; he’s not entirely sure how much time passed while he was in Draco’s thrall just now, or perhaps something about Draco’s power also caused the glue to set faster than usual, but he’s not going to complain. This project has turned out to be far more intense than he ever bargained for. 

The final stage of the wand creation process involves the fine detailing work on the surface of the wand. There is more to this than mere aesthetics; the grooves help shape the flow of the magic over its surface, and a poorly detailed wand will make it harder for the caster to direct their spells. Unfortunately, this also means that Draco’s Veela power must be present in the detailing as well, otherwise the same interference will reoccur when he attempts to cast with it. Harry detaches the wand from the clamp; he stalls for time by looking carefully at it, rolling the wand over in his palm and searching for imperfections in its surface. 

What does he actually want? He remembers the feeling of attending the Quidditch World Cup when he was younger, and the effect that the Veelas on the field had on him. Draco isn’t a full Veela, so his influence over Harry should be lessened, but this afternoon has been exhausting. Harry had thought he had moved on from Draco after that night they spent together; he had believed he could do this work relatively dispassionately. Clearly he’s been wildly over-optimistic about the whole thing. 

Harry wishes he’d taken time to learn about the effect of Veelas’ powers on people who actually know them, or interact with them in meaningful ways. He’s sure Hermione would have thought to look that up if she were in his shoes. 

“Ok,” Harry finally says. He can see Draco perk up out of the corner of his eye, because even when he’s trying to focus his attention completely on the wand, he can’t stop looking at the other man. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “This is the final step,” he continues. “And you’re going to need to really, er. Turn up your power. As it were. Otherwise the wand might still not work right for you.” 

“Like I said earlier, I don’t actually know how to do that,” Draco says drily. He looks conflicted. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“Of course not,” Harry says as he reattaches the wand to the lathe. “None of this is a good idea.” He has an idea how to coax more of Draco’s power out, and it’s probably the worst idea he’s had so far. “What’s the matter?” he asks, giving the other man his full attention and raising an eyebrow. “Scared, Malfoy?” 

Draco’s answering grin is positively feral. “You wish,” he says, and just like that the room is too small, they are too close, and it’s all Harry can do not to throw himself at the pale blonde git. He wants to rip open Draco’s robes and run his tongue along the sharp collarbones he knows are lurking beneath them. He wants to kiss a trail down the length of Draco’s left arm, press his mouth against the remnants of the magical tattoo that’s still there, an unrepentant symbol of Draco’s past that he’s left behind but refuses to hide. He wants to get on his knees and— 

“Harry!” Draco says urgently, and Harry realizes he’s closed half the distance between them, and Draco is actually looking slightly alarmed. “The wand!” 

“Fuck the wand,” Harry says. He’s hungry. He needs to sate the fire that’s raging inside him. 

“Harry, I will do anything you want,” Draco says quickly, and Harry’s hindbrain lights up at this. He tries to pin Draco to the wall, but Draco sidles neatly out of his reach. “But only if you finish the wand first!” 

Harry decides the quickest path to getting what he wants is to fulfil Draco’s desires, and apparently what he wants most in the world at the moment is the stupid wand. He bounds back to his work bench, grabbing his smallest chisel en route, and sets the lathe spinning a final time. The torture of knowing that Draco is behind him, waiting for him, ready to give him what he wants, what he needs—it’s exquisite. Harry’s cock is harder than he can ever remember it being, straining uncomfortably at his trousers. He unbuckles them without thinking, slides them down and kicks them away, then gives himself a quick press of his hand through his pants to relieve some of the pressure. It’s barely tolerable; he’d much rather be rutting against Draco. 

“Please, Harry,” Draco says from behind him, and Harry remembers the promise. Anything he wants, once the wand is finished. He starts to apply small grooves to the spinning wand, carelessly sending tiny shavings flying everywhere. He knows this work well—Ollivander was an exacting teacher, and he’s practiced this on dozens of wands on his own since his old teacher retired. Even in his distracted state, he’s confident that he’ll be able to create something as beautiful as Draco, that will serve him well for many years. 

The long, drawn-out minutes he spends detailing the wand are absolute torture, especially since he occupies himself telling Draco what he’s going to do to him first. 

“I want to taste you,” he says. His mouth is watering at the thought. “I'm going to press you up against that wall and run my tongue along every inch of you. You’ll be shaking by the end, desperate for me to bring you off. Is that what you want?” 

“Harry,” Draco says, and it sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise. 

“Or maybe you should test out this wand you care so much about,” Harry says, feeling reckless. “Maybe you should see if you can maintain an _incarcerous_ while I suck you off. You could have your way with me.” 

Draco actually growls at that, and Harry feels like he’s coming undone. He shudders, palms himself again. 

“I want to bend you over this table,” he says, panting now. “I want you under me, here in my workshop. You’ll leave here and every time you smell wood shavings you’ll think of me.” 

“I already do,” Malfoy says, his voice cracking. 

Harry desperately refocuses on his chiseling—there’s now a sinuous groove starting at the head of the grip and extending all the way to the wand’s tip. It’s serpentine, and Harry hopes that Draco will appreciate the Slytherin touch he’s added. 

This wand will do, he decides. It lacks some of the finer detailing touches he’s done in the past, but now is not the time for subtlety. He tosses the chisel carelessly to the side— it’s worthless to him now that it has accomplished its goal. He’s done with making wands; he has Draco and he needs nothing else. He stops the lathe, extracts the wand and tosses it at Draco, who catches it with his seeker’s reflexes. 

There’s a look of surprise on Draco’s face as he touches the wand for the first time; Harry notices it but pays it no mind. He’s closing the space between them, repeating the words “Draco, please,” over and over. Just as he reaches Draco, overwhelmed by the possibilities of what they can finally do together, Draco’s face hardens and something changes. 

It’s like he’s just taken a breath of clean, fresh air. 

He’s not quite touching Draco yet, but the _need_ to do so is gone. He can remember it, the all-consuming desire to be as close to Draco as possible, give him anything he wanted in exchange for his attention, but now he can observe those feelings from a distance. 

He’s standing so close to Draco, and Harry is slightly shocked to discover that the _desire_ to do those things remains. 

He slowly reaches out, placing a hand on the wall next to Draco’s head. Draco darts a nervous glance at it, then meets Harry’s gaze again. He appears confused, possibly even concerned, like he’s searching for something in Harry’s face. Harry summons all his courage and attempts a smoulder for the first time in his life. 

“Harry?” Draco asks uncertainly. Harry notices Draco’s eyes drop to his mouth, just for a moment, and feels elated. “It felt different this time. It felt like I could actually control it with the new wand.” 

“It worked,” Harry says. He licks his lips, slowly, just to see what happens, and is pleased to see Draco swallow in response. “You’re not causing this. Do you understand? I want you. _I_ want you.” 

“How can you know?” Draco asks quietly. The question hangs between them, slowly expanding to fill the little space that separates them. “That night at the club, too—what if you only feel this way when your judgement’s impaired?” 

Harry is tired of rationalizing, tired of thinking analytically about these matters. He brings his other hand up to cup Draco’s face, slides his palm tantalizingly through the hair hanging down the side of his scalp, and Draco gasps, closes his eyes. Harry brings his lips to Draco’s ear and whispers: “Stick around this time and we can find out.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos or drop me a note! I'm [@lastontheboat](https://lastontheboat.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
